


The Luck of the Draw

by LeCadavre_1904



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeCadavre_1904/pseuds/LeCadavre_1904
Summary: Bruce runs into trouble in Coast City, and it's up to Green Lantern to help him out.It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Relationships: Hal Jordan & Bruce Wayne, Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 61
Kudos: 123





	1. Bruce Wayne and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Hal is not the universe’s luckiest guy.

You’d think he would be, considering he has a magic ring that lets him do basically whatever the fuck he wants (almost). That seems like the jackpot of luck right there. And maybe it is – maybe Hal used up all his life’s luck to get that ring and that’s why everything else around him turns to shit.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

So he’s in Coast City, right, and it’s supposed to be his day off. Sort of. Green Lanterns don’t really get days off, in that if adventurous aliens decide they want to play hooky on earth, he has to politely escort them back to their home planets. But he’s not been assigned to another tour off-world yet, and he isn’t scheduled for the flight deck either, so he’s sitting in his underwear on his cast-off couch watching shitty reality TV and eating massive amounts of junk food.

It’s basically the perfect day.

Until.

Until his phone goes off, and he’s got someone on the other end that he’s not expecting.

“Hey, Dick,” he says as he mutes the TV, where Carole Baskin has just been introduced on _Dancing with the Stars_ and isn’t that just some shit? “What’s up?”

“Are you in Coast City?” Dick’s voice is clipped and he’s ignoring Hal’s half-assed pleasantry, which means something is wrong.

“Uh, yeah, what can I do for you?”

“You’re not going to like this, but I need you to do it anyway.”

Hal frowns. “You’re not really selling me on this.”

“It’s just… Bruce is in Coast City.”

“I see,” says Hal, even though he doesn’t.

“For a case.”

“Right.”

“And things did not go according to plan. He stopped answering his comm and his tracker has moved in an unexpected direction.”

Uh oh. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“None of us are there. This was supposed to be a quick in and out operation so he didn’t bring any of us along, and Superman is off-world for that treaty with the Nethargians…”

“Wow, you’re right, I do _not_ like where this is going.”

“He needs an extraction.”

Hal sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. You want me to waltz in on Spooky’s top secret operation and probably fuck it all up for him? I mean, you do realize that he’s probably got this under control, right? Can you seriously tell me he’s never gone dark on comms with you before? Because he does that to me all the damn time.”

“I know it seems like overkill, but I just… there’s something wrong, Hal, I know there is.”

“You know there is,” he mutters, but he’s already getting up and pulling on pants, casting around the room for a shirt. “You know he’s gonna kick my ass for this, right? It’s gonna be all, ‘Jordan, I didn’t need your help, you ignorant moron.’”

“He won’t say that.”

“Wanna bet?”

“’Ignorant moron’ is kinda redundant, he’s more creative than that.”

Hal closes his eyes for a moment. “I hate all of you.”

“I owe you for this, I promise. I’ll send you the coordinates to his tracker.”

So Dick does, and Hal is cursing him the entire time he’s flying out to Coast City’s industrial district. Bruce’s tracker, predictably, leads to a warehouse, one that looks rough from disuse. Trust Bats to end up in the creepiest warehouse in every goddamn city he visits.

Hal isn’t normally a stealth kinda guy. Not because he _can’t_ be stealthy, mind you, he’s just not often given the opportunity. Most of his battles are sort of head-on collisions of the extraterrestrial nature, so, you know.

But that’s not what this is about, and Hal has this idea that maybe if he just gets a view of the situation from the sidelines, he’ll discover that Bruce has everything under control and he can leave before anyone notices he’s there.

There’s a hole in one of the walls of the warehouse, and it’s almost too small, but Hal is nothing if not persistent and he gets through.

He emerges behind a large shipping container and peers around the side.

There’s five guys and they’re arguing, not loud enough for Hal to make much out, but he hears an angry “Wayne” tossed around, and frequent gestures to the back of the warehouse out of his sightline. It’s almost funny how Bruce can manage to piss off just about everyone he meets. That’s some kind of talent.

Hal sighs. He’s gonna have to intervene. Bruce is gonna throttle him. Well, tough shit, he thinks as he thumbs his ring.

Half a second later, the men are trapped in a glowing green box.

Hal flies up from behind the shipping container and gives a lazy salute. “Sorry for the inconvenience fellas, just seem to’ve misplaced a certain billionaire, he’s about, oh, this high, black hair, a suit that costs more than all of your apartments put together?”

Judging by the way the men start pounding on Hal’s construct, they don’t think he’s very funny. Fuck ‘em.

“So, he’s just back this way, right? I’ll grab him and be on my way. Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t forget about you, the cops’ll be here in just a few minutes to pick you up.”

The far side of the warehouse, where the men had been gesturing before, contains a door that, Hal presumes, leads to some long-abandoned office. He’s whistling to himself a little as he lands in front of the door. It’s unlocked, which is evidence of how dumb these people are, because who the fuck leaves their hostage in an unmarked room? Even if you don’t realize you’ve just kidnapped Batman, it seems like a sloppy move.

Also – Batman hasn’t managed to just walk out of here? That kinda tickles Hal, and he’s definitely going to be a dick about it.

He walks through the door. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Wayne, the cavalry has arrived,” he says with a grin, and then he stops short.

Bruce’s arms have been looped around an exposed pipe and his hands have been cuffed. There’s cuffs on his ankles, too. But that isn’t what makes Hal’s gut drop like a stone, makes his heart skip five or ten beats.

There’s blood. Everywhere.

Bruce’s shirt is soaked in it, and his pants too, probably, though he can’t see since the fabric is black. There’s blood covering the floor around him and for one godawful second, Hal is pretty sure he isn’t breathing.

That kicks Hal’s ass into gear, and he’s at Bruce’s side in a second, kneeling beside him in all that blood and feeling for a pulse.

It’s there – sluggish and weak, but there. Some of the blood is coming from his head – he’s been hit pretty hard with something. There’s duct tape wound around his mouth, and that’s covered in blood too, from his nose, which is probably broken. Hal tears open the button-down shirt on a suspicion and, sure enough, there’s cuts all over his abdomen, like someone took their goddamn time carving him up.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, nausea causing bile to rise up in his throat. _Not the time, not the time, keep your shit together, Hal, Bruce needs you._

Hal looks back up and is shocked to see that Bruce’s eyes are open.

Bruce is staring at him, blearily, but he isn’t quite focusing. He’s trying to track Hal’s movements, that’s obvious, but he’s definitely having a hard time. Hal is going to chalk it up to the wound on his head – there’s no way he took that hit without getting a serious concussion – but there’s something else, and he can’t quite put a finger on it. Then he takes in the dilated pupils and for one very brief moment wants to go back out into the warehouse and beat the shit out of Bruce’s assailants.

He takes a deep breath and takes stock of the situation instead. Bruce has been drugged, beat half to death, and has a head wound. He needs treatment, but it can’t be the Watchtower or the Batcave – Bruce was kidnapped as a civilian, so he’s gotta show up in a civilian hospital.

First things first – get him there safely. Which means getting him out of his restraints. Hal constructs bolt cutters and snips off both sets of cuffs with minimal difficulty, beginning with Bruce’s ankles.

When he cuts the cuff off of Bruce’s left wrist, Bruce’s arm falls and he groans slightly into his gag. Shit. He hasn’t taken the gag off yet. Hal’s fucking this up spectacularly.

“Hang on, it’s okay, I’m gonna take the tape off, alright? Let’s get this off of you, that’s it, easy…”

His nonsense is probably only making himself feel better, not Bruce, but he can’t seem to stop. He unwinds the duct tape from Bruce’s head, wincing as it pulls out some of his hair by the root. Bruce doesn’t seem to notice.

He noticed when Hal jostled his arm, though.

Hal keeps that in mind as he pulls the rest of the tape off. There’s a piece of cloth poking from between Bruce’s lips – he pulls on it, and Bruce starts to retch. He pulls and pulls and pulls and finally, he gets it out and holy Christ, it had been shoved all the way back in his throat, he was literally choking on it.

Bruce is coughing, his body spasming, and that’s gotta hurt so Hal puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, pressing him against the wall so his movement is minimal. Bruce doesn’t seem to notice, seems to have lost track of Hal’s presence entirely. What little bit of lucidity he’d had before is gone, and Hal isn’t sure if that’s better or worse.

The coughing subsides, and Hal still hasn’t forgotten about the arm.

Hal feels along Bruce’s left forearm and – there. There’s give in his arm where there shouldn’t be – it feels like a clean break, though Hal can’t be certain without an x-ray. That’s probably not Bruce’s only broken bone – he’s going to have to be careful getting him out of here.

He’s not sure how Bruce will react to being moved, if he’ll react at all, but Hal isn’t stupid. Bruce is highly trained, extremely dangerous, and very paranoid. There’s a non-zero chance that he’ll lash out if Hal surprises him and end up hurting himself in the process. So, even though Hal can’t be sure that Bruce understands or registers anything he’s saying, he tries anyway.

“I’m going to move you, Bruce. I’m going to get you on a stretcher and to the nearest hospital. It’s probably not going to feel very good, but it’s going to be okay, alright? I just need you to stay relaxed.”

Bruce’s eyes flick back to his face while he talks, but he gives no indication he’s understood. Well, it’ll have to do.

Hal wills a stretcher into place on the floor nearby.

Then he reaches for Bruce, sliding one arm behind his shoulders and one under his knees. He uses the Lantern Force to lift him as gently as possible, to avoid jostling him as much as he can. There’s a sharp intake of breath, but Bruce doesn’t react otherwise, which is probably the best possible scenario here.

It seems to take an eternity to get him over to the stretcher. But that isn’t the hard part. The hard part is going to be laying Bruce down, stretching him out and securing him without hurting him. Even with the Lantern Force, it’s not gonna be pretty.

He lays him out on the stretcher as gently as he can, but stretching him on his back causes Bruce’s face to blanch. He wrenches to the side, which has Hal throwing his arm across him to keep him on the stretcher. He allows him enough movement to vomit, though, which was apparently his end-game. He throws up onto the dingy warehouse floor and chokes on his own spit and Hal thinks he’s going to throw up too, just from seeing this.

Eventually Bruce collapses back onto the stretcher, and Hal wastes no time willing glowing green straps to hold him in place, a large one over his chest and abdomen to stop the bleeding from his cuts. He gently stretches Bruce’s legs out, which don’t seem to cause much additional pain, thank God. Once Bruce is thoroughly strapped and immobile, Hal lifts them both into the air and flies them as fast as he safely can toward St. Anthony’s Hospital.

It takes less than five minutes to get Bruce to the hospital and through the door, setting him down as gently as humanly possible onto an actual stretcher while hospital staff stare at him in shock.

“He’s been beat, drugged, hit in the head, and his left arm is broken. Also, might have a broken nose,” says Hal. And, well, Hal isn’t usually in the habit of delivering people to the ER – that’s not something he has to do much on Earth – so he isn’t really sure what comes next. He watches as the doctors and nurses around him leap into action, getting Bruce secured on his new stretcher and wheeling him away.

Feeling hopelessly out of place and frustratingly useless, Hal takes off for his apartment.

He’s gotta call Dick.


	2. Let sleeping bats lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: dubious medical knowledge ahead.

Hal plans to call Dick as soon as he gets back to his apartment, God’s honest. He doesn’t get the chance, though—the moment he gets through the door, his phone is going off.

“St. Anthony’s Hospital just called me,” says Dick, his voice harsher than Hal has maybe ever heard it.

He swears at himself, but only in his head, because his mouth is already running. “I’m so sorry, Dick, I was just about to call you, I didn’t realize they would call you first!”

“You didn’t realize they would call his _emergency contact?_ ”

Hal lets that go—he’s got more important things to discuss. “I got him there as soon as I could. He’s… I think he’ll be okay.”

He meant that to sound reassuring, but as soon as he’s said it, he knows he missed the mark.

“How bad is it?” asks Dick, the snark sapped from his tone.

Instantly, Hal’s mind is overwhelmed with what he’s seen in the past hour. Bruce choking into a gag. Bruce covered in ragged cuts and soaked in his own blood. Bruce’s eyes fogged with drugs. The pallor on Bruce’s face as he leaned over to vomit on the dirty floor.

He wrenches himself back into the present. _Not the time, not the time._ “He was drugged and had a head wound. Some pretty serious blood loss and a broken arm. That’s all I could tell for certain.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t try to tell Dick that he’s sure Bruce will be fine. Hal isn’t a doctor—Dick will have to talk to the hospital if he wants more details.

Hal is something else, though. Something other than a Green Lantern and a test pilot. He’s a friend, or at least a partner, and he isn’t going to let Dick and his family go through this alone. “Is there anything I can do?” He asks, feeling wholly inadequate. “I can fly out there and bring you here, or... anything, anything that’s in my power to do. You name it.”

There’s a long pause, and Hal is about crawling out of his skin with the need to _do_ something. Every second he stands there idle is another second his brain spends cannibalizing the horrible things he’s just seen, keeping them locked away in his head as fodder for his nightmares.

“Can you stay with him at the hospital?”

And that… isn’t exactly what Hal was expecting. “I… I mean, I think they only let family…”

“They’ll let you if I call ahead,” says Dick, and he’s rushing now. “I’m with Tim right now and he’s banged up pretty bad, too—that’s part of why I asked you to go in the first place. Alfred and I have our hands full over here. Can you just… it won’t be for long, I promise. I’ll probably be able to get there before he even wakes up. But I would just feel better if there was someone else there just in case.”

Hal thinks about that, but not for overly long. There’s only one answer he can give, really. “Okay. I can be back over there in twenty. What are you going to tell them? The hospital, I mean, about me. You can’t exactly tell them…”

“I’ll say you’re a family friend. Thank you _so_ much, Hal, this means… this means a lot. I’ll get there as soon as I can. And if you could just… keep me updated. I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, no problem.” Dick hangs up before he finishes his sentence, but that’s okay—he doesn’t want to talk anymore, anyway. He wants to be moving, be doing something, and now he has a mission and that’s just fine.

So Hal grabs his phone and wallet before heading down to his car. The drive to St. Anthony’s isn’t long, but it sure feels like it will never end on this beautiful, wretched sunny day. Hal taps his fingers nervously against the steering wheel at a traffic light that doesn’t seem to understand the concept of “green.” He could’ve flown, sure, but he wants the car just in case, and he wouldn’t want to get accidentally noticed, and it isn’t like Bruce is going to know anyway, since he’s…

Hal’s babbling brain stops here and he cranks the radio, trying to tune himself out of his own mind. His results are marginal.

When he finally gets to the hospital, he’s expecting to sit in the waiting room for a few hours until Dick arrives. Which isn’t going to do much for his nerves, but it’s better than sitting at home by himself, maybe.

That isn’t what happens.

The moment he walks in, a cluster of nurses and doctors look his way. One of the doctors—a woman with a long brunette ponytail and square glasses—strides his way immediately. “Are you Mr. Jordan?”

Hal feels inexplicably like he’s been called to the principal’s office. It’s all he can manage not to sink into his spine, hunch his shoulders to make himself appear smaller. He clears his throat and focuses on moderating his breathing instead. “That’s me. What’s going on?”

Dr. Farrah—that’s what her nametag says, anyway—wastes no time. “Mr. Wayne is quite—distressed. We’re trying to calm him down, but we think he may be more receptive if there’s someone he knows in the room.”

Yeah, receptive. That’s for _sure_ a word Hal would use to describe Bruce. “Can’t you guys sedate him?” he asks. Partly because he’s a little terrified of being in a room with a pissed-off Batman (not that he’ll ever admit it), and partly because there’s no way he’s going to be at all helpful in this particular situation.

“Given that he has been given some unknown medication, we’re unable to give him anything else. At least until we identify the drug in his system and know what we are administering is safe,” says Dr. Farrah.

She pauses for a moment, then, staring at Hal. And Hal is not one to back down from a challenge. Besides, he’d promised Dick he’d be here, and if being here means sitting at Spooky’s bedside, then he’s going to goddamn do it.

“Lead the way, Doc,” he says.

Dr. Farrah doesn’t seem overly impressed by his attempt at being cavalier, but she lets it go. She looks like a person who’s used to picking her battles. Hal follows behind her, anxiety growing as they pass by hospital rooms until they arrive at a door that’s already ajar. There’s a commotion coming from inside. _Oh, boy._

There are two male nurses in the room. One is holding Bruce’s legs down, the other is holding down his chest. One of them keeps asking Bruce to _please calm down, sir, we need to set your arm, you are going to hurt yourself,_ and they’re trying to do their jobs, Hal gets that, but he just…

He sees red.

“Let go of him,” he says. His voice is calm, calmer than it’s maybe ever been, which is sort of a surprise because he feels about a millisecond away from stepping over to that bed and _making_ them let Bruce go.

The nurses barely spare a glance for him, their stares shifting to Dr. Farrah behind him. Whatever they see there convinces them to let go and step back, which is pretty lucky for all parties involved.

As soon as they step away from the bed, Bruce stops fighting. His breathing is ragged, his right hand is twitching in agitation on the covers, and he’s clearly in pain, but he’s not trying to go anywhere. He just wanted them to stop touching them. Couldn’t they see that? Hal feels his anger surge up again but clamps down on it, firmly. Losing his ever-loving shit isn’t going to do Bruce any favors right now. And he’s self-aware enough to know that he’s not exactly being rational.

He steps closer to the bed, still maintaining some distance, approaching from Bruce’s right side. If he comes from the left, Bruce will feel more vulnerable, from the broken arm. He doesn’t want Bruce to feel vulnerable. He wants him to recognize that Hal is here to help, isn’t going to hurt him, is on his side.

Only one way to do that. “Could you give us a moment?” He asks, turning back to Dr. Farrah.

He’s pretty sure the doctor is unhappy about that, but it’s hard to tell because all he has to go on is a slight twitch to the corners of her lips. She nods, gives the two nurses a look that has them scrambling out the door, then follows.

She turns back before she’s fully through the door. “Five minutes,” she says.

It’ll have to do.

As soon as they’re alone—as reasonably alone as they can be, seeing as the cavalry is just outside the still-open door, ready to come barging in if anything goes wrong—Hal inches closer to the bed.

He’s close enough now to see that Bruce’s eyes are darting rapidly across the room, trying to make sense of where he is. He seems to have lost track of Hal entirely.

“Bruce,” says Hal.

And the drugs must have worn off at least a little bit, because Bruce’s gaze zeroes in on him. He still seems to be struggling a little to focus, but he’s giving Hal a look of recognition, or at least Hal thinks that’s what that is.

“Bruce. I’m going to come closer, okay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, though his lips part and he looks like he wants to. His brow furrows a little, but Hal is gratified to notice that he doesn’t tense up as Hal comes closer.

When Hal is at Bruce’s bedside, he takes a risk and picks up Bruce’s hand, holding it in his. Maybe it should feel weird, but to Hal, it’s no different than holding the hand of one of their own who’s been injured on the battlefield. It’s there to help ground Bruce, to give him something to focus on, to know someone is there.

He’s not sure what he would want to hear, if he was the one drugged and injured in an unfamiliar hospital. He has a pretty good idea what Bruce would want, though, if he was in his right mind. “You’re in a hospital in Coast City,” Hal says, quick and to the point. Only facts. “You’ve been injured and drugged, but you’re going to be okay.”

Bruce is looking up at him, blinking sluggishly. “Squeeze my hand twice if you understand,” says Hal, not even sure if Bruce is capable of that kind of motor control at the moment. But, wonder of wonders, Bruce manages to squeeze his hand, wait a beat, and then squeeze again.

“Your left arm is broken and you took a pretty bad hit to the head. You’ve been…” and here Hal stumbles, because somehow, for no discernible reason, this is what he’s struggling the most with, “…cut up and lost some blood. The doctors are going to need to set your arm and I’m guessing give you a few stitches. They don’t know what you were drugged with, so they can’t give you a sedative. You need to stay calm and keep still. Can you do that?”

Bruce is staring at him, all his attention on Hal now, and it’s uncomfortable—every bit of Bruce’s considerable intensity is scouring Hal’s face to search for lies, and Hal has no lies to give him. He wants to wither under the scrutiny, but he won’t, because Bruce deserves better.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity— _surely, it’s been five minutes,_ Hal thinks—Bruce squeezes his hand twice.

Hal feels relief flood him. Bruce is hurt, yes, but he’s coherent, and he’s in control, like he should be. Not like he was an hour ago, twisted and broken and discarded on the floor like an old toy.

“Okay. I’m going to call the doctor and the nurses back in. And then…” He actually hasn’t thought about this part yet. “Do you want me to stay? I can go if you’d…”

He never finishes that sentence because a look of pure terror comes into Bruce’s eyes, and Hal realizes he’s never seen that before. Partly because when they’re on the battlefield, Bruce has lenses in the cowl so it’s not like he can see what’s going on behind the mask. Mostly, though, Bruce just doesn’t seem to get scared. Not like this, not like what Hal sees in front of him right now.

But how much more horrifying this must be for Bruce—Bruce, who has what Hal considers a pathological need to be in control. A man whose entire life is elaborate ruse upon lie upon misdirection, where on little mistake can make the whole thing come crumbling down, put him and his family in danger. Whose thoughts are probably sifting through his fingers like sand and who likely can’t remember the last few hours with any real clarity.

So, yeah, Hal doesn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he squeezes Bruce’s hand and he says, “I’ll stay. I won’t leave your side.” He meant to add _until Dick gets here,_ but he doesn’t want to even introduce the concept that he’ll leave, not when Bruce is this upset. He decides right then and there that he won’t leave until Bruce says it’s alright, never mind whether or not Dick is here.

The fear fades out of Bruce’s eyes for the most part, but there’s still apprehension lurking. Like he thinks Hal will bolt the second he gets the chance. Hal doesn’t have the heart to be offended by that.

Hal calls Dr. Farrah and her crew back in without turning around, without breaking eye contact with Bruce for even a moment. Bruce doesn’t look at the doctor as she files in with her team. He keeps his eyes steady on Hal.

“Go slow and tell him before you do anything,” says Hal, well aware that he doesn’t have the authority to give orders here but doing it anyway, and to hell with whoever doesn’t like it.

“Understood,” says Dr. Farrah. With that, she gets to work.

Things go much more smoothly this time. Dr. Farrah is very good at explaining what’s going on, and she does it in just the way Bruce would like—no nonsense, very clear, and totally devoid of sugar-coating. Eventually, Bruce’s eyes leave Hal’s and he is able to focus on the doctor, though he never lets go of Hal’s hand.

As Hal predicted, once they finish with Bruce’s arm, they remove the temporary wrappings they put on his chest and work on stitching shut the deeper wounds. They run a few tests, but other than that, there isn’t much for them to do at the moment.

“As soon as we’re sure it’s safe, we’ll give you some pain medication, Mr. Wayne,” says Dr. Farrah, once her work is complete and Bruce is resting comfortably—or as comfortably as he can possibly be in that sterile, unfamiliar hospital room, surrounded by prying eyes and whispers of his name in the halls, everyone wondering what he’s doing here and what happened and is that really Bruce Wayne? “Until then, I would suggest you try to get as much rest as possible.”

With that, she leaves, and Bruce and Hal are alone again.

Hal takes a second to glance down at his phone. Nothing from Dick yet, which he supposes is to be expected. Then, he grabs the nearest chair and sits himself down. Bruce is still holding his hand and Hal doesn’t want to be the one to let go, but it does seem a little more awkward now, he can admit.

“Dick will be here later,” says Hal, just to have something to say. Bruce is looking at him, but still can’t string together a coherent sentence so it’s up to Hal to make the conversation. “He said…” and Hal stops himself there, because there’s _no way_ he’s going to tell Bruce that Tim is injured, too. No sense in worrying him about something that he can’t possibly help in his state. “He has to take care of something, then he’ll be here.”

Bruce nods, sort of. He’s still watching Hal, almost desperately, and it hits him: Bruce doesn’t want to go to sleep. He’s fighting the drug they gave him—surely, it’s making him drowsy. Surely, it would be _easier_ to sleep. But sleep means giving up control voluntarily, and Hal knows Bruce well enough to know that just isn’t going to happen here.

“One of the test pilots got shit-canned,” Hal blurts out. Bruce’s eyes widen a little in surprise and some confusion. “At Ferris Air. Carol caught him drinking on the job, and oh boy. I thought I’d seen Carol mad before, but apparently I was wrong, because what she did to him was nothing short of a massacre. I mean, it was almost traumatizing to watch. _I_ was traumatized. I might actually make her pay for my therapy.”

If there’s one thing Hal Jordan is good at, it’s babbling. Talking a mile a minute about anything and everything. And this, right here? He can do this. He can talk Bruce’s ear off with bullshit to keep the man awake. It’s not even a challenge, really.

So, Hal talks. He talks about Ferris Air. He talks—in coded language, of course—about his recent assignment in the Thanagarian sector. He talks about his last date, and how the girl was named Keighleigh, and how she insisted on spelling out her name and made him take Instagram photos of her for twenty minutes straight. On and on and on he goes.

He’s not sure how long it is before Bruce’s eyes really start to droop. He’s losing the battle with sleep—it’s only a matter of time now.

Hal pauses in his meaningless chatter. “If you need to sleep, it’s okay,” he says firmly. Firm enough to make Bruce listen to him—or he hopes so, anyway. “I’ll stick around. Nothing will happen while you’re out. I promise.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that, just like he hasn’t said anything since Hal picked him up off that dingy warehouse floor. But he does look Hal in the eye, and then very deliberately lets his eyes go closed.

His breathing evens out a few minutes later, leaving Hal to stand guard. Leaving him feeling utterly and completely alone in this hospital full of strangers.


	3. Sleeping beauty wakes

Hal is still sitting by Bruce’s bedside when Dick finally shows up, alone but bearing a gift: coffee. He pulls up a chair, sits down next to Hal and hands him a cup.

“Thought you were bringing the cavalry,” says Hal, for lack of anything else to say. Dick hasn’t commented on the fact that Hal and Bruce are still…well, there isn’t another word for it. They’re still holding hands.

“Alfred is staying behind to take care of Tim. Kid took a pretty bad fall and his concussion needs monitoring. So does the infection he gave himself, which is probably the reason he fell off the building in the first place.” Dick sighs and rolls his eyes, ever the fond (exasperated) older brother.

“Hang on—Tim _fell_ off a _building??_ ”

Dick considers that for a moment. “Well, it wasn’t a very _tall_ building, so he had that going for him.”

Hal shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. For the love of God, don’t tell Bruce that, you’ll never keep him in this bed if he finds out.”

“Way ahead of you,” says Dick, leaning back in his chair.

“What about the others?”

Dick considers this as he sips at his coffee. “Damian is at the Kent’s for the weekend hanging out with Jon. I don’t think it would be good for him to see Bruce like this. I’ll sit him down when he gets back home and explain what happened. And Jason… Jason’s around.”

Hal waits for more of an explanation about that second thing, but doesn’t get one. He tries a sip of his coffee instead—it’s got just the right amount of sugar and definitely has a shot of hazelnut syrup. “How’d you know how I take my coffee?” He asks.

Dick’s smirk looks a little (a lot) like Bruce’s. “World’s second greatest detective.”

Hal snorts but doesn’t say anything else. For a while, they sit in silence. Finally, it gets to be too much. “It made him feel better.”

Dick blinks at him. “What did?”

Hal shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “The- you know. Holding my hand. Having something to grab, I mean. He seemed kind of freaked out and it helped and I didn’t want to let go because I don’t know if it’ll wake him up.”

Dick nods. “Okay.”

“It’s not weird, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay.”

“You’re making me feel weird.”

Finally, Dick laughs. “Hal, I wasn’t judging or anything. I’ve sat at enough bedsides to know how it goes.”

Relief and not a little embarrassment flood Hal. “Right. Just making sure.”

“On that note, I just wanna say thank you. I really appreciate what you did here. I’m sure Bruce would’ve been alright in the hospital on his own, but it made me feel better to have you here.”

Hal thinks about Bruce’s panicked eyes, his struggles to throw off the nurses, the way his confusion spiraled him even further into uncontrollable terror. “You don’t need to thank me. Really. He would do the same for me.”

Dick nods. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again, after a moment. “It’s just… I know that you two haven’t always gotten along.”

He stops there, as though that statement speaks for itself. And Jesus Christ. A spike of red-hot anger mixed in with a whole lot of hurt lances Hal right through the gut.

That’s what Dick thinks of him. And Bruce, too, probably—Hal saw how afraid Bruce was. That Bruce thought, down to his core, that Hal would abandon him. All because, what? Bruce is a dick?

And yeah, you know what, Bruce _is_ a dick. Bruce would probably be the first person in the world to admit that about himself. He’s a self-righteous asshole who thinks he’s smarter, faster, better than the rest of the world, and he wouldn’t know tact if someone beat him over the face with it.

But.

But Bruce is other things, too.

Bruce is kind—the moment you expect him to tear you a new asshole, to tell you what a failure you are, you’ll get a heavy gauntleted hand on your shoulder instead, a moment of solidarity when you otherwise feel truly alone. He’s generous—it’s no secret that League members regularly discover their financial troubles vanishing into thin air. It’s practically become an inside joke that Batman’s their sugar daddy (and that’s equal parts hilarious and frustrating, because Hal doesn’t need anyone to pay his way, thank you very much). Bruce is thoughtful—the moment he noticed that Hal flinches ever so slightly when someone calls him by his last name, he stopped using it. In that moment, Bruce’s exasperated “Jordan” became an exasperated “Hal” or “Lantern.” And Hal never even had to say a word.

But beyond all that, beyond all the little things that make Bruce as amazing as he is infuriating, there’s one truth that Hal thought they all understood. Bruce is his teammate, and you don’t leave teammates behind. You don’t make teammates fend for themselves.

He’s thinking that, in the silence that stretches between them. Doesn’t trust himself to break it, because if he does, he thinks he’ll probably say something unforgiveable to Dick. He just didn’t expect it, is all, for Dick to think so poorly of him. Hal is constantly surprised at his ability to be a complete and utter disappointment to everyone around him. Shame they don’t give medals for that, because he’d take the gold.

Dick is the one to break the silence this time. “Anyway. You’ve done your part, and I’m here now. You can go home, if you want to. I can take things from here.”

Hal breathes through the moment until he feels like he can control himself. “I think I’ll stick around, if it’s all the same to you,” he says. “Spooky can kick me out himself when he’s feeling better.”

Dick laughs, completely unaware of what’s going on in Hal’s head, of the anger and hurt and fear, fear, fear—because Bruce will be okay, he has to be okay, but what if he isn’t? What if…

Hal won’t think about it.

“You realize he’s going to be baffled when he wakes up and you’re by his sickbed? Especially if he doesn’t remember you bringing him here.”

And Hal hadn’t thought of that—Bruce might not remember a damn thing. That does make him bark a laugh. “Christ. I should’ve brought flowers, just to see the look on his face.”

Dick snorts, and Bruce groans.

Dick and Hal blink at each other for a moment before looking back to the figure on the bed. Bruce’s eyes have started to flutter and there’s a crease in his brow that speaks of pain. He’s shifting a little, and in the next split-second, Dick is on his feet. “I’ll get the doctor,” he says, all Nightwing and Hal nods.

Then Dick’s out the door and Bruce’s eyes are open and he’s looking around the room in confusion. “Wha…t?” He seems to be having trouble making his jaw do what he wants, which would be hilarious any other time and in any other situation.

“Bruce, hey, how are you feeling?”

Bruce is looking at him, the furrow in his brow growing deeper with bewilderment. “Hal… you… what…?”

He looks around the room once more. “I’m in…a hospital.” Jesus, his voice is raspy. Hal wants to give him something to drink, but he’s not sure if he can, what meds the doctor will put him on now that the sedation has worn off.

“Yeah—I brought you here. Do you remember that?” asks Hal.

Bruce’s eyes are back on him, and they’re focused. Exhausted, a little bleary from drug-induced sleep, but blissfully focused and lucid. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking it over. “Did I throw up?”

Hal chokes down a laugh. He’s not sure why that’s funny. It isn’t funny, actually, but something about it is setting him off. He forces himself to remain serious. “Ah, yeah, you did. Are you feeling alright now? Do you need to throw up again?”

Bruce shakes his head, but sucks in a breath as he does so. “My arm,” he mutters.

“It’s broken,” says Hal.

“That’s usually why an arm is in a cast, yes,” says Bruce, irritated. Hal feels his temper flare just so in response.

“You know, typically, the proper response to someone saving your ass is ‘thank you,’ but that’s probably too much to ask from Count Dracula himself, isn’t it?”

“Do you ever get tired of the vampire references?”

“I don’t know, do you ever get tired of being an absolute dickhole to everyone around you?”

“I see our patient is awake.”

Dr. Farrah is standing in the doorway looking exactly as unimpressed as ever, and Dick is behind her fighting a grin. Because it’s funny, the two of them sniping at each other like that.

Except that Hal doesn’t think it’s so funny, all of a sudden.

He steps back, stays out of the way while Dr. Farrah asks Bruce questions, prepares to give him some actual pain medication, which Bruce will no doubt refuse. Because Bruce is now in complete control, he’s totally fine, and…

And now, Hal is nothing but an annoyance.

He’s standing next to Dick as the good doctor works, so he takes advantage of his position. “I think I’m going to head out,” he says, and Dick looks not at all surprised.

“Sure. Thanks for staying this long. I definitely owe-”

“Yeah, thanks, catch you later,” says Hal, and he turns on his heels and leaves the room, because if he has to hear Dick thank him for being a decent goddamn person one more time, he’s going to punch the little shit right in his pretty boy face.


	4. Smile for the camera

He’s not sure if it’s his fault, what happens next, or if it’s Dick’s fault.

It’s probably Dick’s. Dick had, after all, asked this favor of Hal, to sit at Bruce’s sickbed, and the moment that he walked in those hospital doors and told the staff that he was there to see _Bruce Wayne…_ well, that probably sealed their fates.

It still feels like his fault, though. When he’s walking past reception toward the hospital doors, totally absorbed in his own foul mood, and is unexpectedly stopped by a pretty brunette nurse.

“Oh,” she says, like she’s surprised for some reason. “You’re leaving already?”

Hal stops short and gives a quick glance around the waiting room until he can be certain she’s talking to him. “Ah, yeah, I thought I would. Is that… okay?”

Now he sounds like an idiot. She doesn’t call him on it, though. She just says, “Of course! I just... I hope I’m not being too forward. I just wanted to say that I hope you’re alright.”

Hal stares back at her, feeling increasingly like he took a serious hit to the head and that’s why nothing is making sense. “No- I mean, yes, I’m fine. I’m not the one who got injured,” he adds with a laugh, then cringes at himself. God, he sounds like an asshole.

“Oh, I know,” says the woman. “But it’s always hard to see your partner injured, isn’t it?”

And when she says the word “partner,” Hal doesn’t realize. In his mind, Bruce _is_ his partner. You know, in a… saving-the-world-together-on-a-semi-regular-basis sort of way.

If he would take just two seconds to think about what she’s saying, what she _actually_ means, he never would let the following slip out of his mouth:

“Yeah, it really is.”

Predictably, his brain catches up a second too late. “Oh, but he’s not… I mean, when I say partner, I don’t mean… okay, look, it’s funny, but we aren’t actually…”

The nurse smiles and waves his protests off, and Hal wants to scream. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in his head. “Okay, but I actually kind of do.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she says with a sweet smile.

And then she’s turning away and Hal is still standing there, trying to pick his way through a full sentence like a goddamn idiot.

He wants to chase her down and explain to her—in no uncertain terms—that he and Bruce _are not dating,_ for God’s sake. He knows, though, that that would only make things look more suspicious. So instead, he turns on his heels and is out the hospital door as quickly as humanly possible.

There aren’t any paparazzi waiting outside, at least, and Hal is unspeakably grateful for that as he climbs into his car. It’s just the one nurse, who saw them and thought… what she thought. Well, he amends, as he recalls the scene in Bruce’s room, where he’d practically growled the nurses and doctor out of the room like a rabid dog, there’s probably a few people who think they’re… romantically involved. But they’re professionals, and they’re not likely to go around running their mouths about Bruce Wayne’s romantic inclinations, real or otherwise. Right?

Right?

* * *

Hal wakes up the next morning to the annoying chirping of his phone.

He keeps his eyes resolutely shut as he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand. He doesn’t open his eyes until he has it in front of his face, waits until the last possible second to confront whatever bullshit the day is going to bring him.

The bullshit is, apparently, eight missed calls from Carol.

There’s also four from Barry, two from Oliver, one from a number he doesn’t recognize—probably spam—but it’s Carol that really feels like a bucket of ice water poured right down his spine. He fumbles for the phone, nearly dropping it in the process as he scours his brain for a reason she could be calling. He’s certain—absolutely goddamn _certain_ —that he doesn’t have any flights today. But if he’s forgotten one… oh God.

He answers the phone just before the call goes to voicemail.

“Harold. Jordan.”

Okay, yep, he’s going to die. The question is now: will his death be a merciful one, or will Carol torture him for hours first?

“Oh, what, did you answer my call just to _sit there in silence?!_ ” She shouts, and her voice takes on that shrill quality that feels like nails on a chalkboard. Or maybe nails scoring down his _spine_.

“Jesus, Carol, what the hell is going on?! What did I do??”

“What did you do? What did you _do??_ That, in fact, is what I am calling to ask _you,_ you fucking asshole. Because what I want to know is why I’ve got a dozen reporters and cameramen standing outside Ferris Air demanding to speak to _Hal motherfucking Jordan!_ ”

For a moment, Hal sits there, as bewildered as she must be.

And then… then it hits him.

“Oh my _GOD,”_ he shouts, stumbling out of bed to do… something. He isn’t sure what. Maybe seek out Superman and ask him to reverse the world’s rotation to turn back time or something—can Clark do that? Unclear, but Hal is definitely going to find out.

“Whatever you did, Hal, you are going to _fix it_ or so help me _God…_ ”

“Yes, I know, sorry, sorry, sorry, I’ll… let me call you back later, I have to go!”

“Don’t you _dare_ hang up the-!”

He ends the call, only for his phone to chirp again, Ollie’s name lighting up his screen.

Hal takes a moment—just one moment, to close his eyes and cuss. He really lets it loose, in every language he knows, both Terran and otherwise. It takes him a while to get through it all, but eventually he does, and then he answers the call.

“Ollie,” he croaks, “Please tell me I’m dreaming.”

“Okay, Hal, you’re dreaming. You are definitely _not_ on the cover of _People’s_ magazine, starring as Bruce Wayne’s flavor of the week.”

Hal chokes on air. “Oh my God, do _not_ call me that.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I mean, the magazines _clearly_ think what you two have going is more serious, seeing as you were visiting him in the hospital and everything, so ‘flavor of the week’ is a little unfair.”

And then, incredibly, Oliver _laughs._ Because, you know, it’s not like Hal’s life has just been blown to kingdom-fucking-come or anything.

“Do you think this is _funny?_ ” And, wow, his voice is higher than it’s been since he was 15. Hal wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to burn down his apartment.

“No, no, you’re right, it’s not funny. It’s _hilarious._ Hal. My man. Bruce is gonna _kill_ you.”

And, oh. Oh no.

Ollie’s right.

“But it wasn’t my fault!” Hal protests, weakly. He listens to Oliver laugh on the other end of the phone as he inches toward his bedroom window. The curtains are drawn, thank God, and he only has to twitch them a little to the side to see the absolute masses of paparazzi milling around outside his shitty apartment.

Hal is pretty sure he’s going to faint, especially when one of the paps points at his window and all their cameras start flashing. He lets the curtain fall shut and stumbles back to sit on his bed. Through numb lips, he says, “I think… I think I need to go off-world for a while.”

“Yeah,” says Oliver, losing control over his laughter once again. “You think?”

* * *

Eventually, Hal gives up on Oliver making him feel any better and hangs up on him mid-sentence. _That’ll show him,_ he thinks petulantly as he collapses on his sofa and just… stares.

He’s afraid to turn on the TV. He’s afraid to look through his zillions of text messages. He’s afraid to go on the internet.

But of all these things, the internet feels safest. So he takes a few deep breaths. Then he gets up and makes himself coffee. Then he goes to change into clean clothes and spend some time shaving and styling his hair. And once he’s put off the moment of truth for as long as he can, he sits back down at his computer and fires up his laptop.

The first thing Hal sees are the pictures.

There’s one of him talking to Dr. Farrah. The angle is wrong—you can tell the person was trying to take the picture secretly, possibly one of the staff at the hospital, though he can’t be sure—but it’s unmistakably him. The next picture is of him walking out of the hospital doors, looking over his shoulder like he expects he’s being followed. Turns out he was, just from a different direction.

It’s more than just that, though. The sleezeball gossip rags managed to dig up a picture of him and Bruce from about a year ago. It’s a picture that Hal didn’t even know existed until just this moment. Bruce had hosted a gala that Carol had dragged him to in the hopes of securing additional investors for Ferris Air. Bruce had shaken his hand and called him “Hank” while he was making his rounds, and Hal had squeezed his hand back hard enough to cause real pain in retaliation.

It is, as far as Hal knows, the only time that they—that is, Hal Jordan and Bruce Wayne—have been seen together in public. It isn’t much, but it’s enough.

The articles… Hal can only read a few of them before he has to quit. They give a full account of his time with Bruce in the hospital, including the hand-holding ( _shit motherfucking goddamn son of a cock_ ), along with a whole lot of speculation about how the two of them might have met. Especially since, as the tabloids so helpfully point out, they aren’t exactly in the same “social class.”

They literally use the term “social class.” Hal thinks he’s going to be sick.

The worst part of it, though, isn’t the dramatic retellings of Bruce’s hospital stay. Nor is it the thinly-veiled suggestion in every article that Hal is some kind of gold-digging whore. No, the worst part is that they all show an insatiable curiosity towards the one thing that Hal can’t stomach:

_Who exactly_ is _Hal Jordan, anyway?_

So far, the magazines have discovered only the basics. He was born in Kentucky, served in the Air Force, and moved to Coast City in his twenties. But he knew they would keep digging, and when they dug, they’d unearth some graves that were better left undisturbed.

A face rises in his mind, of a whey-faced woman with stringy black hair and hollowed-out eyes. He pushes it away ruthlessly. _Not the time, not the time._

When is it the time, though?

_When I’m dead,_ he thinks grimly, just as his phone rings again.

It’s that unknown number again, and he considers not answering. It’s probably about his car’s extended warranty, or maybe someone calling to tell him he’s won a cruise.

He does notice, though, that it’s a Gotham number. And he wonders if maybe…

He’s answering before he really thinks it through. “Hello?” he asks.

From the other line comes a deep rumbling voice, the voice that gives Gotham’s nightmares nightmares, the voice that has more than once shouted Hal down for his recklessness during a League meeting.

“Hal,” it growls, and Hal knows he’s fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone for your kind and thoughtful comments! This is the most supportive writing community I've ever been involved in. I hope this chapter satisfies your expectations!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom! I haven't decided if I'll continue it or not. I like the idea of Hal and Bruce developing a friendship (maybe more?) and being able to rely on each other even when they're dicks to each other the rest of the time. Would love to get thoughts on this and whether or not it's worth continuing!


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